Work Text:
Something feels different. Something's wrong.
Sam's in the driver's seat, but that's not different. Not different enough to be weird, anyway. No, the weirdness is the way he's driving. It's not unusual for him to grunt in pain when he slides behind the wheel, or to need a minute to steady his breathing before he puts the key in her ignition. But the way he's leaning over to reach the ignition with his left hand, struggling with the key, stopping to put the keys down on the seat and wipe blood away from his eyes, again with his left hand. That's different. The way he finally gets the engine started and collapses across the seat, suddenly crying out in pain when he lands on his right arm, then pulls himself up and reaches over to the gearshift with his left arm. That's different.
But the most uncomfortable thing, the thing that screams wrong to her, is that he's by himself, that no one is stitching him up or cleaning the blood off his face or just saying it's gonna be okay, and that's not how it's supposed to be. She doesn't like it. (She remembers a long stretch of it. She doesn't like it at all.)
He takes her on a long slow loop through the empty cornfield instead of backing out onto the gravel road, and given his difficulty with the gearshift, she's not going to complain about off-roading. (She wouldn't complain anyway. She'd do anything for him.)
As he points her toward the highway, she feels his hand trembling on her wheel, his foot unsteady on her pedals. She gradually moves a vent so it blows cool air on his pale, sweaty forehead. Outside air, not the A/C, because she's low on fuel and she doesn't think he's noticed. He wipes his face again and then scrubs his bloody hand on his jeans, but there's still enough blood for her to feel it, slick and then sticky on the wheel.
When his phone rings, he pats his left pocket and groans in defeat. He tries to reach into his right pocket with his left hand, but her steering wheel is in the way. (She's so sorry.) He pulls to the side of the road and she slows down as quickly and gently as she can. He barely gets her into park, but she gives the gearshift the extra little nudge it needs as he slowly opens the door. He hauls himself out and leans wearily against her as he retrieves his phone. She can tell he's speaking to Dean, and her uneasiness fades a little, because wherever they're going, Dean will be able to take care of him. (She does all she can, but there's only so much.)
He slides back into his seat and awkwardly puts her in drive again, and she wishes she could do this for him. Wishes she could just deposit him safely somewhere, without any effort on his part. His breathing sounds shallow and pained, and his eyes are getting glassy. She feels his hand slipping off the wheel, and she subtly veers toward a pothole. He cries out in pain again, but he's awake and alert.
They're finally back in town and stopped at a traffic light when he notices her gas gauge. Oh, fuck me, he mutters. He places his hand, large, warm, and gentle, on her dash. Please, he says. Please get me back to the hotel. (He doesn't need to worry. She'll take care of him.) She makes the necessary adjustments. Dean would be disappointed in the lack of power, but right now, Dean's enjoyment is not her priority. She's got to get Sam home.
When they pull to a stop at the motel, he gasps in pain as he reaches over to turn her off, then lays his head back against the seat for a minute. Just before she starts to worry, he groans, sits up, and pats her dash. Thanks, he says. She watches him pull himself out of the seat and stumble into the motel room, clutching his right arm against his chest.
(You're welcome, my boy.)